At the center of it all lay a world called Aries.
Small.
Insignificant.
Under the control of the Human Faction.
In the vast hierarchy of existence, Aries barely deserved a footnote. It was a low-ranked world, distant from the grand stages where fate was decided, far removed from the planets where power gathered like storms.
Yet life here was rich in its own way.
Humans lived alongside elves and dwarves. Beasts roamed forests untouched by cities. Creatures born from myth and legend still walked openly beneath the sky. Dragons ruled distant planets, their shadows spanning continents. Phoenixes burned and were reborn in cycles older than history. Vampires thrived beneath eternal night. Werewolves hunted under twin moons. Giants walked worlds where gravity itself bowed before their steps.
Each major race controlled factions.
Each faction ruled multiple planets.
And yet, Aries—small and weak—had become the stage upon which destiny was quietly rewritten.
Fifteen years after the echoes of cosmic conflict faded into myth, life continued here in ignorance.
On the edge of a modest city stood a quiet orphanage, old and weathered, its wooden walls marked by time and neglect. It was not grand. It was not well-funded. But it was alive.
Inside its kitchen, Sister Mary moved slowly between pots and worn countertops. Her clothes were simple, patched in places where fabric had grown thin. Strands of brown hair escaped her loose tie, streaked faintly with gray despite her still-gentle face.
Her hands bore the marks of years of work—small scars, rough skin, fingers that ached in the cold. Yet her movements were careful, practiced, filled with patience.
She hummed softly as she cooked.
Not because she was happy.
But because the children liked it.
Outside, faint laughter drifted through open windows, mingling with the distant sounds of the city. For a brief moment, the orphanage felt peaceful.
Then the laughter broke.
Shouting followed.
Then crying.
Mary stiffened.
She set the ladle down and turned sharply, her heart already knowing what she would find.
She stepped outside just in time to see several children scatter like startled birds, guilt written plainly across their faces as they ran past her.
At the center of the yard stood a boy.
Messy white hair clung to his forehead. His clothes were worn, sleeves too short for his thin arms. Dirt smudged his knees.
And his eyes—
Blue.
Strikingly blue.
Too clear.
Too pure for a world that showed little kindness.
He stood there silently.
Bruised.
Alone.
Mary sighed softly, not in anger, but in quiet sadness. She approached him and knelt down, her knees creaking slightly as she lowered herself to his level.
"What happened?" she asked gently.
The boy said nothing.
He never did.
The other children called him Mute.
Not always cruelly—sometimes simply because it was easier than thinking of him as anything else.
Mary never used that word.
She called him Blue.
Because of his eyes.
Because names mattered, even when no one else thought they did.
Blue had been different from the day he arrived. Mentally slow, they said. Unable to speak. He communicated only through simple gestures when hunger or pain became too much to ignore.
He had been brought to the orphanage as a baby, wrapped in plain cloth, abandoned without explanation.
No name.
No record.
No past.
On Aries, everyone knew that at the age of fifteen, one would awaken and receive a system—along with their true name, bound to their soul. Because of that, no one had bothered to give Blue a proper one.
Why name him, some said, when the system will do it later?
Mary had disagreed silently.
She reached out and gently ruffled his dirty white hair.
"It's okay," she whispered. "Go inside."
Blue hesitated, then nodded faintly and turned toward the building.
Mary watched him go, her chest tightening.
That night, disaster struck.
It began with laughter.
Then a spark.
Then panic.
A careless game played by restless children turned disastrous when fire caught dry wood. Flames spread faster than fear, climbing walls hungrily, devouring cloth, beams, and memories alike.
Smoke flooded the halls.
Children screamed.
Mary moved without thinking, guiding them out one by one, coughing as heat pressed against her skin. She shouted instructions, pulled smaller ones into her arms, shoved open doors that resisted.
Outside, chaos ruled.
All around her, children cried and clung to one another, eyes wide with terror.
Then Mary froze.
Her heart dropped.
Blue.
Her breath caught as she turned back toward the orphanage, flames roaring from its windows.
"No—"
She ran forward instinctively.
The heat slammed into her like a wall.
Smoke swallowed the doorway.
She tried again, tears streaming down her face as she screamed his name—not his real one, but the only one she had.
"Blue!"
The fire answered.
Someone grabbed her arm, pulling her back as a beam collapsed inward, sparks shooting into the night.
She fell to her knees, shaking.
Inside the orphanage, amidst crackling flames and collapsing beams, a boy lay sleeping.
Firelight danced across the walls.
Smoke curled toward the ceiling.
Then—
His eyes snapped open.
Blue.
Sharp.
Aware.
For the first time in fifteen years, the soul drifting through the void found its vessel.
Ethan Heart woke up.
Flames surrounded him.
Smoke burned his lungs.
And the first words to leave his mouth in this new world were—
"What the fuck?"